


Her Name Was Lillie

by Ghanima_Starkiller



Category: Django Unchained (2012)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-05
Updated: 2013-02-05
Packaged: 2017-11-28 07:47:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,411
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/671994
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ghanima_Starkiller/pseuds/Ghanima_Starkiller
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dr. King Schultz recalls what led him into the dubious profession of bounty hunting....</p>
            </blockquote>





	Her Name Was Lillie

They sat in the silence of their thoughts, as they often did at night, eating, watching the stars. But questions were becoming more and more common, so Schultz wasn’t all together surprised when Django spoke, though the query itself caught him off guard.

“Why you never married?”

Schultz looked up at him, his bushy eyebrows raised in astonishment. “Who says I didn’t?”

Her name was Lillie. She was French, which, of course, King spoke fluently. His brother Luther brought her home, introduced them and asked King to translate for him, between them. Luther was smitten, and soon, King was as well. She had skin like polished mahogany, and sable hair shot through with amber, but it was her eyes, her eyes that were the most striking, almost full black with flecks of gold that would shift like honey. She was almost as tall as he, and a little taller than Luther, and she held herself with her chin slightly jutting, up and out.

“Who your brother?”

“He was a dentist,” Schultz explained briefly, offhandedly as he was now lost in the memory, in the senses it aroused in him. “Like me.”

“You was dentist brothers?”

Yes, brother dentists, the practice of Schultz & Schultz. Lillie was nearer Luther’s age, near ten years King’s junior, but he was in his thirties then, and it hadn’t mattered much. She was a tease at first, but then, it had been a long time since she had had civilized companionship. You see, as a girl, she had been taken captive by the Mohave and they had tattooed her chin with blue ink, an intricate pattern that King had found himself fascinated with, always wanting to trace with a curious finger. And while it meant little to the tribe, simply used to identify their captives if they tried to run away, when she was again returned after a raid to her own people, she was treated as a pariah. She was seen as being…

Here Schultz paused, speaking in German, trying to find the right word to use. “Adulterated,” he settled on.

“What that mean?” He considered again, but this time Django helped him out with a blunt lack of tact. “White folk think the injuns rape her, so they stayed away?”

“Ja,” Schultz confirmed sadly, quietly.

“And the injuns, they mark her up, like a slave?”

Schultz hadn’t thought of the comparison, and raised his bushy eyebrows again. “Ja, I suppose so.” Django nodded, understanding this woman a little better, thinking of how she had gotten away. How she, too, had been found by Schultz.

So, Lillie lived with them both, traveled with them, went where they went. He recalled the first time he lay with her, under the endless roof of twilight, exploring her body with fingers and lips and tongue. He kissed between her legs, licked her there like a cat at a bowl of cream until she was the one purring. Giggling all the while, because the rough, thick, even-then-graying bristles of his beard tickled at all those sensitive places, tantalizing them, abrading tender flesh. Her body undulated under his oral ministrations and he was like a snake charmer, making her dance to his rhythm, the one of his inquisitive, insatiable tongue. And he watched with those soft thighs of hers on his shoulders: breasts rising and falling, stomach rolling like a wave, and always that proud, jutting chin with the blue pattern.

He would take any opportunity that presented itself to be inside of her, putting his hard cock where his mouth always craved to delve into. From behind, with her skirts still on, sitting in his lap—that was his favorite, when she faced him, her long, lithe legs wrapped around his waist, riding him hard, finishing him wet. Perhaps it was just his strong sense of self-esteem, but he always believed that she came to him first, before Luther. He would make her moist, juicy like a peach; she was not yet spent when she first sought him out.

“So…” Django frowned. “You and yo’ brother, you share her?”

“Nein, it doesn’t sound right,” Schultz insisted, a bit flustered now, the color in his face rising. “We had a sort of… an unspoken agreement, I suppose, that one of us would eventually win her, and take her to wife.”

“And you did?”

Schultz sighed. “Nein. No, she chose Luther.” To infuriate me. To make me act, which I would not do, he thought but did not add. Had I, how different would things be now? he wondered.

“Why she choose yo’ brother?”

“Luther,” he said, twirling the end of his profuse moustache between thumb and forefinger, “had a much more extraordinary beard than I. Hard to believe, I know.”

Django laughed, and Schultz joined in, for the first time since starting the tale feeling lighter as he gazed up at the cold stars, which stared back at him impassively. “Didn’ you fight for her?”

And just as quickly and gently, Schultz’s expression fell again. “No, Django. I am ashamed to say that I did not. I had my pride, I thought. Conceit,” he scoffed, flapping a hand dismissively. “Arrogance.”

“You should have.”

“I know, Django.”

It had taken her ten years to choose, to wait for King to choose her, never wheedling, never stamping her feet or making threats; she had learned too young to suffer silently. And to be patient. He had no idea what finally pushed her to make a decision. Maybe it was her husband. Oh, yes, she had a husband. Well, by frontier laws. A husband that was not King’s brother. An outlaw by the name of Jew Joe, who was, to the best of King’s knowledge, not in actuality a son of Abraham. It took him some time to find them, but he did. He left two bullets in Luther’s chest. And one through Lillie’s forehead, between her two proud brows.

King had been dreaming of her, almost as if he were having premonitions, almost as if she were calling to him. He hadn’t seen or spoken with Lillie or his brother in near on four years, but after a dream of Lillie moved him to tears and to the first mess he’d made in his bed sheets since he’d been a teenager, he left immediately for the Texas territories. He found them both, and he cried for them, holding them each in their turn, his brother whom he’d known since birth. And the woman he had loved. And then he tracked down Jew Joe and shot him in the street like a dog.

He buried his brother and Lillie, with a space in between, where he wanted to be laid to rest when the time came. And in his line of work, it was always sooner rather than later, though later was always preferred.

After Django had gone to sleep, he thought of her again, stroking his beard as he recalled teasing her large, dusky nipples with his whiskers, laving until the buds were puckered, taut, suckling like a babe until she was slick as a honeycomb. Gone five years ago now. And he was so cold without her arms to warm him, and so lonely without the song she used to sing as she stroked his hair, after they had made love. When her thighs were wet with their mingled sex, and maybe his saliva, and his cock was still strong, younger than he was now, and full of seed.

His head against hard rock and not resting against the plush pillow of her bosom as it should have been, he fell asleep to that song, murmured in his ear by the wind. And nothing but the wind.

***

Django labored in the sun as Broomhilda sat nearby, watching, occasionally bringing him a sip of water. He finished towards duskfall, sweating, dirty, throwing the shovel aside. Hildy helped him lower the shrouded figure into the hole, between the two stones it had taken them near on three days to find in the desert: Dr. Luther Harold Schultz and Mrs. Lillie Cœur Schultz.

Silently, Hildy bowed her head as Django filled the hole in. Neither said any words over him; Django had had his farewell, 'until we meet again.' But Django wished that he were happy now, with his Lillie, as Django had his Broomhilda once more. In the dirt, he scrawled one thing before he joined Hildy at the horses, one last message: Siegfried.


End file.
